Sunglasses After Dark

by Nancy A. Collins

  "Do not fear, brothers and sisters! While it is true Brother Zebulon is no longer among you, Sister Catherine is here! As Elijah's mantle fell upon Elishah, so was Zebulon's gift passed on to me. At the time of my darling Zeb's tragic death, I received a vision! I saw Zebulon standing between two angels so beautiful it hurt to look at them. Zebulon said, 'Honey, I have to go now, but promise me you'll carry on my work. Promise me that.'

  "I said, 'Zeb, I can't do the things you do. No one can!'

  "But Zeb just smiled and said, 'As I leave all my earthly things to you, so do I bequeath my gifts! Have faith and the Lord shall see you through!' Can I get an amen on that?"

  "Amen!"

  "As it was written in First Corinthians, Chapter Twelve, I found myself blessed with the gifts of Knowledge and healing! 'To one is given utterance of knowledge according to the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing!' I was overcome by the glory of Christ and I fell to the floor and stayed there all night, crying and praying and blessing my sweet savior. Now I am able to continue my husband's good works, and that's what y'all are here for, isn't it, brothers and sisters? Say yes!"

  "Yes."

  "I shall not disappoint you, friends. I have mighty big shoes to fill"—she gestured to the banner draped behind her and its lesser brothers hanging from the coliseum's I-beams—"and for me to let you down would be the greatest sin I have ever committed."

  The "healing event" then proceeds according to its own peculiar rituals and traditions. The choir sings. Sister Catherine exhorts the crowd to give generously to her crusade to build a Zebulon Wheele Memorial Chapel in his Arkansas hometown. Strapping young men work the crowd, carrying large plastic trashcans in place of offering plates. A thirty-nine year old woman with "sugar diabetes" is brought from the audience and told to throw down her insulin. She obeys and Sister Catherine grinds the ampules into the floorboards with one deft twist of her high heel. The crowd roars amens. Sister Catherine reminds the congregation to give generously to the Zebulon Wheele Memorial Home for Unwed Mothers. An elderly man suffering from a heart condition is wheeled on stage. Sister Catherine places her hand inches from the man's forehead, then strikes him with the flat of her palm. The man begins to shriek and howl in ecstasy, his arms spinning like pinwheels. Sister Catherine grabs hold of the supplicant and pulls him to his feet. To the amusement of the crowd, the euphoric old man pushes her across the stage in the wheelchair. By the time they reach the speaker's podium, the old man's face is beet-red. Two young men in dark suits with narrow ties and narrower lapels emerge from the wings and hastily escort him into the darkness beyond the lights.

  The congregation is well-pleased. They clap and shout and stamp their feet. "Hallelujah! Amen! Praise the Lord!" rebounds from the walls. Sister Catherine accepts their veneration, not a hair out of place, her hands held high. Her gold lame pantsuit shimmers in the lights from the cameras. Tears of humility smear her makeup, leaving dark trails on her cheeks.

  "His will be done! His will be done, brothers and sisters! As it was said in Matthew, Chapter Fifteen: 'Great crowds came to him, bringing with them the lame, the maimed, the blind and the dumb, and he healed them so that they marveled when the dumb spoke, the maimed became whole, the lame walked, and the blind saw!' Praise God! Praise…" Sister Catherine falls abruptly silent, her eyes sweeping the auditorium. "Someone here is in dire need of healing. I can feel that need, calling out to God to ease the pain. I have healed others tonight, but this need is greater than all of those combined. Tell me, Lord. Tell me the name of this afflicted soul, so I might minister to his needs." Sister Catherine lowers her head, seeking divine counsel as she prays into the microphone.

  The camera slowly pans the audience as they wait for God to speak to Catherine Wheele. Who will it be? Who will be called out to be healed? There are many worthy of attention. The ushers made sure they were seated in the front rows, where the cameras could see them. The cameramen linger on particularly pathetic cases: an elderly woman so twisted by osteoporosis she sees nothing but her feet, a drooling microcephalic supported on either side by his parents, a once-pretty girl who fell from her boyfriend's motorcycle and slid twenty feet across an asphalt road facedown. The camera studies these deformities of accident and nature with the eye of a connoisseur.

  Catherine Wheele's head snaps up. Her voice is tight with excitement. "Is there a George Belwether here tonight? George Belwether of 1005 Hawthorne?"

  The crowd murmurs among itself as everyone turns in their seats to see who will rise and go to be healed. No one doubts there is a body to go along with the name and address. She always knows.

  A fragile-looking man seated near the front stands up. The same young men who helped the old man with the heart condition, or their twins, move from the base of the pulpit and into the congregation. Flashes of gold at their wrists leave smears of light on the camera's retina. Their eyes are shielded from the klieg lights' glare by expensive designer sunglasses.

  The man they escort from the audience is dying of cancer. He stands between the healthy young men, his flesh the color of bad meat. Chemotherapy has robbed him of his hair and most of his teeth; it is impossible to say if he is young or old. By the time they reach the podium, the man is visibly exhausted.

  Sister Catherine rests one hand on his shoulder. Her manicured fingernails, lacquered until they shine like fresh blood, grip the man's ill-fitting suit.

  "Brother, how long has the cancer afflicted you?" She thrusts the microphone into his face.

  Belwether forces his eyes from the mammoth visage of Zebulon Wheele hanging from the ceiling. "Five years, Sister Catherine."

  "And what did your doctors say?"

  "It's inoperable. I only have a few months, maybe weeks…"

  The crowd moans in sympathy, like the prompted gasps of surprise and envy heard on game shows.

  "Have you tried everything, Brother George?"

  Belwether's balding head bobs up and down. "Chemotherapy, laetrile, crystals, fire-walking, channeling…"

  "But have you tried God, brother?" Her voice develops an admonishing edge. Once more the microphone is thrust into his trembling face.

  "No, not until now… not until tonight!" Tears stream down the dying man's face. The camera moves in closer; his pallid features fill the screen. "Help me, Sister Catherine! I don't want to die… Please…" His hands, as thin and flaccid as an old woman's, clasp hers. His sobs threaten to knock him to the floor.

  "Do you believe in the Lord God Jesus Christ's power to bring the dead to life, to make the blind see, the deaf hear, and the lame well again?"

  Belwether presses his cheek against her fingers, his eyes welded shut by tears.

  "Ibelievelbelievelbelieve."

  "And are you prepared, Brother George, to accept the Ultimate Healing?"

  He nods, overcome by emotion. The congregation mutters knowingly.

  Catherine Wheele motions for one of the stagehands to take charge of the microphone and her gold lamé jacket. The camera pulls back to get a better view of the miracle. She grasps the dying man's shoulders, forcing him to kneel before her, his back to the audience. The congregation holds its collective breath; the ultimate healing is the reason they attend services. Even in his heyday, Zebulon Wheele never attempted anything so grandiose and controversial.

  After rolling back her sleeves, she raises her right hand above her head, splaying the fingers and rotating the palm so everyone can see it is empty. Her hand remains suspended, the muscles in the forearm twitching and jumping like live wires. Then her hand plunges downward, like an eagle diving to snatch its prey, and disappears into George Belwether.

  The supplicant's mouth opens so wide the skin threatens to split and reveal the skull beneath. There is no sound. His head snaps backward until the crown nearly touches his spine. His eyes roll in their sockets and his tongue jerks uncontrollably. The audience cries out in horror.

  It is impossible to tell if George Belwether is being eviscerated or having a powe
rful orgasm. The front of his torso is hidden from the lens of the camera, but it looks as if she is rummaging around in an empty gunnysack.

  With a yell of triumph, Catherine Wheele removes her arm from the dying man's stomach. Her bare arm is slick with blood and bowel juices. The congregation comes to its feet, roaring their approval and shouting her name over and over. The thing she holds aloft is a grayish-black lump the size of a child's softball. It pulses and twitches in her grip. Belwether lies at her feet, showing no sign of movement. The young men reappear and drag him off stage. The rubber tips of his shoes leave skid marks on the stage's waxed surface.

  A stagehand hurries on camera with a silver washbasin and a white towel. Another stagehand pins a lapel mike onto her vest so she can speak as she cleanses herself.

  "See, brothers and sisters? See what belief in the Word of God can do for you? See what the power of Jesus Christ Our Lord is capable of if only you open up your hearts and accept His divine glory? Thus sayeth the Lord: 'He who Believeth in me shall not perish, but shall have Everlasting life!' and if y'all don't want to perish, brothers and sisters at home, send me your love offering and I shall protect you from the diseases of sin and Satan, just as my husband did before me. Send us your seed gifts, and remember, that which you give to the Lord shall be returned to you tenfold! So send us twenty dollars, or ten dollars or whatever you can, brothers and sisters! Don't let doubt enter your mind. Act today! If you doubt, then you are lost to Jesus! Pick up your phone and give ol' Sister Catherine a call!"

  An electronic superimposure comes on the screen, explaining how the checks and money orders should be made out and what major credit cards were accepted, should the audience at home wish to call the toll-free Love Offering Hotline. Operators standing by.

  "Jesus Christ," muttered Hagerty, thumbing the off-button on the TV set. Sister Catherine and her congregation became the dwindling white dot in the middle of a cathode tube.

  Hagerty wondered, not for the first time, what the hell was wrong with him. Here he was, spending his waking hours among psycho tics, paranoid-schizophrenics, neurotics, and compulsive personalities of every possible persuasion, so why waste his time watching a bunch of religious kooks who'd escaped diagnosis and bought themselves a TV studio?

  Claude massaged his eyes. Deep down part of him was fascinated by the sleazy geek-show theatrics and cheap tricks. In a lot of ways it was not unlike watching wrestling. But the truth was that he was watching in order to keep from falling asleep.

  Moving from behind the nursing station, Hagerty unplugged the little portable black-and-white set and carried it back into the staff lounge. He hated watching television in the lounge—especially alone at night. The damned vending machines hummed and clicked constantly. Claude always had the feeling they were conspiring among themselves.

  There was a long, well-padded sofa located just inside the door. How nice it'd be to take a nap. He shook his head to clear it. No way! He stuck a quarter in the coffee dispenser and selected black, straight up. As if to give credence to his suspicions concerning vending-machine malice, the paper cup dropped through the chute at an angle, and before he could act to correct it, the hot coffee sluiced out, splashing his crotch, the legs of his trousers, and the floor.

  "Great! Just fuckin' great!"

  After mopping up the spilled coffee and dabbing halfheartedly at his pants with a wad of wet toilet paper, Claude returned to his post. He was still sleepy.

  Hagerty wasn't afraid of being discovered asleep on the job. He'd spent many shifts sacked out, his feet propped in an open drawer, but that was before the nightmares. That was the real problem.

  He would be on the verge of drifting into deep sleep, where the senses ignore the outside world and react to signals generated by the mind. It always started there, for some reason. Hagerty's conscious mind, still striving for control, would realize he was starting to dream. Suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore. He couldn't see what it was that was sharing his dreams; it moved too fast, a hint of movement at the corner of his mind's eye, made of shadow and chaos. He could see its eyes, though, reflecting light like those of a cat caught in the headlights of a car. He wanted to tell it to leave, but he was too far into dreamtime to make a sound.

  The shadow thing scurried through his brain, digging with the frantic energy of a burrowing rodent. When it finished ransacking his mind, it became very still, as if sensing Hagerty's awareness for the first time. And then it would smile.

  Claude always woke up at that point, his limbs tingling as if from a mild electric shock.

  Maybe he was going insane. All those years being exposed to crazy people were bound to have an effect, like water dripping on a stone, gradually eroding it away. His brain probably looked like the Grand Canyon.

  He didn't feel insane, but that's how it starts; you're perfectly normal except for one little obsession, then—whammo!—you're wearing hats made out of aluminum foil so the men from Planet X can't see into your head and read your thoughts.

  But he knew he wasn't crazy. There was something wrong with Blue, S. Something no one wanted to acknowledge, much less talk about. Kalish was proof of that.

  Hagerty didn't like thinking about the last time he saw Kalish. And without meaning to, he began to doze.

  He was at work. He wasn't supposed to be there. It was his night off. He'd been bowling with some friends. Out late. Left something at work. Couldn't remember what. Decided to stop by and check his locker. It was after midnight when he got to Elysian Fields.

  Went to the locker room. Surprised to see Red Franklin there going off-shift. Red was supposed to be filling in for him. Red said there'd been a change in the schedule. Archie Kalish ended up pulling Claude's shift.

  The dream memory begins to speed up and slow down at the same time. Kalish. The damned fools put Kalish in charge! His heart began pumping faster. He didn't want to go to the Danger Ward. He knew what he'd find there. But his dream pulled him down the corridor of memory. Maybe if he was faster, this time things would be different. His movements were slow and clumsy, as if he were moving underwater. The elevator took an eternity to arrive, the doors opening in slow motion. Hagerty wanted to scream at it to hurry up.

  He shoved his hand into his trouser pocket, searching for the key ring that would give him access to the Danger Ward. His arm went in up to the elbow. His pocket had been replaced by a black hole. He reached farther down until his shoulder was level with his hip. His fingertips brushed cold metal and he withdrew the keys. His fingers were numb from being in the black hole and he had to struggle to keep from dropping the keys. Fumbling, he finally located the circular key that fit into the recessed override lock that would take him to the Danger Ward.

  The elevator groaned and began its sluggish movement upward. Hagerty cursed and pounded his fists against the walls, trying to hurry the damn thing along.

  Kalish! The idiots left Kalish up there. Alone. Unsupervised. Hagerty had no love for the bastard. It was rumored he abused patients, like poor Mrs. Goldman. And the brain-dead teenager in Ward C. The one who'd smacked her head into a dashboard at 80 mph. The one who turned up pregnant.

  The doors of the elevator opened like a wound. The Danger Ward was dark, the only light coming from the empty nursing station. Claude moved forward, his feet adhering to the floor with every step. His muscles strained until he thought they'd tear from their moorings. His clothes were plastered to his skin.

  The gate was unlocked, but had somehow trebled its weight. Dozens of voices were raised in mindless sound. As he continued down the hall, he separated individual words and occasional sentences from the verbal chaos.

  "Mamamamama"

  "Blood… see blood… on the walls… the halls full… flood of blood…"

  "They're here! I can feel them! Make them stop, please…"

  "Go away, go away, I don't want you here, go away…"

  "Get her out of me! Get her out!"

  Time expanded. Every heartbeat was an hour. Every b
reath a week. He could see his arm stretching out, his hand reaching for the doorhandle of Room 7. It took a year for his fingers to lock around the knob. Two years for it to turn in his grip. It was unlocked. Of course.

  The door swung open and Hagerty saw he was too late. He would always be too late.

  It was dark in Room 7. Unfortunately, there was still enough light for him to see what was going on.

  Kalish was sprawled on his back, arms and legs akimbo. His pants and underwear were snarled around his ankles. He still had his shoes on. His legs were pale and skinny. Kalish's penis lay cold and wet against his thigh like an albino slug. Hagerty couldn't see Kalish's face because the room's tenant was kneeling over the body, her head tucked between its right shoulder blade and neck.

  Time snapped and Hagerty found himself speeding toward the woman in the straitjacket. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pulled her off the corpse and held her at arm's length. He caught a glimpse of Kalish's face and the shredded mess where his throat should have been.

  Claude pinned the struggling madwoman against a wall, making sure her feet cleared the floor. Her screams, twisted by memory and dreamtime, began to echo inside his head.

  When he was a kid he used to spend his summers on his grandparents' farm in Mississippi. During one of his vacations a swamp cat went rogue and terrorized the community, killing chickens and neighborhood pets. When an itinerant field-worker was found badly mauled in a ditch outside of town, the farmers formed a hunting party and chased the panther into a canebrake. Rather than risk their prize coon dogs by sending them after the big cat, they decided to set the field ablaze. The panther was roasted alive, screaming its rage and pain like a demon in hell.

  The crazy woman opened her mouth, and the burning panther's yell came out.

  All he could see of her face, hidden by a filthy tangle of hair, were eyes that resembled twin bullet holes. His throat burned with bile, but he managed to keep his grip on her.